


Fall of a hero

by Bluemary



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chains, Choking, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Karnak, Rape, Warning: Eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemary/pseuds/Bluemary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two famous patriots meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall of a hero

**Author's Note:**

> Story written for the seventh edition of the Italian p0rnfest, with the prompt "Eddie/Steve Rogers, non-con, Steve suffers a rape'.
> 
> English is not my first language and the story is not beta'd, but I hope it's readable enough.

**Fall of a hero**

 

He woke up with his head hurting badly and his survival instinct screaming to get up and be ready to defend himself against an unknown enemy; he would have done exactly that, but he only managed to lift his body of a couple of inches, before falling down with a strangled sound.

Only then he realized he had his wrists cuffed and tied together with a chain as wide as his arm, which was connected to a metal ring on the floor.

“A little gift from the government, to make sure you're gonna behave,” a voice behind his back commented.

He turned his head and met the hard gaze of a man in his forties, with hair streaked with gray, mustache and a badly shaven beard on a hostile face that probably belonged to a soldier or a criminal or both. The man was larger than him and Steve didn't need to recognize the yellow pin with a smiley or the unlighted cigar between his lips to realize who he was facing.

“You're the Comedian.”

He had heard about him in several occasions, often with discordant opinions: soldier, war hero, vigilante, assassin, madman, sadist, amoral, patriot and, according to a certain book, aspirant rapist.

Now that he was meeting him in person, he was half convinced that the bad rumors about him had to be true.

“Good, a point for you, brat. Or should I call you Captain?”

The kick arrived while Steve was still listening to the echo of his last few words and it was so sudden he didn't have the time for a reply. It hurt, despite the enhanced resistance due to the super soldier serum, because the strength of the kick was much more than what a normal human could muster and the Comedian had hit him right in the most exposed part of his abdomen. If Steve had been his old self, he would have agonized on the floor with his stomach beaten to a pulp and a few ribs broken. Now he only coughed once, but the threat represented by the Comedian was still consistent.

He tried to put some distance between them by circling the metal ring where his wrists were tied to.

“Why am I here?”

The Comedian's foot descended upon him, hitting his back, and then remained there, as heavy as a block of lead, taking all the air in his lungs away.

“Some politicians are worried.”

Using a great portion of his strength, Steve managed to get on his hands and feet, but the cuffs still held on, despite his tugs, and the Comedian's own strength wasn't something to underestimate. He couldn't believe that the man wasn't an enhanced human.

“They don't like having an uncontrollable soldier,” the Comedian went on, while another tug made Steve's wrists almost snap.

He saw the older man about to kick him again, while smiling around his unlighted cigar.

“And I don't like the fucking idealists.”

This time the kick hit him lower and Steve screamed when agony flared in his groin. It was unbearable, too vivid and intense, like he had never felt the pain after Erskine's serum, a burning suffering that stole his breath away and made him helpless. While he was desperately trying to breathe through the agony and the nausea that was surging in his throat, the Comedian crouched beside him.

Steve tensed immediately, one hand already pressed against his testicles as a shield, but there wasn't a second hit: the Comedian only moved the chain through the ring to loosen it a bit, letting him a foot of freedom.

Steve would have tried to stand in a moment, to rebel and fight against that sadist who was disguised as a patriot, but the pain was still too much and he didn't have the strength to move when he saw him approaching. His feeble attempt at pushing the Comedian away had no results and soon he found himself with the chain around his neck, his wrists pressed against his throat and his body still on the floor.

“What do you want to do?” he wheezed, when the pain receded enough to let him breathe properly again. “Torturing me? Killing me?”

As soon as he tried to pry open the cuffs, the chain around his neck tightened abruptly, causing him a coughing fit. He wouldn't be able to break free, he realized, but he had seen death from too close to be truly afraid, now, even of a man who had that smile and those eyes.

“It takes more than a mad man with a chain to scare me.”

The Comedian laughed, and it wasn't like Schmidt's contemptuous laughter, nor like Loki's crazy one. It was a pure, dark amusement, sadism and irony that made Steve shiver, because the vigilante was perfectly lucid and desired his pain.

Even so, Steve didn't deflect his gaze, ignoring the humiliation of having to stare at him while he was on the floor at his feet. He only needed a kick, a moment to catch the mad man by surprise, and the Comedian would fall down onto the dust next to him.

Like he had guessed his thoughts, the Comedian kicked one of his legs, then he trampled on it – and Steve's leg bones creaked painfully, because the super soldier serum was flowing in his veins, but the Comedian was heavy, his combat boots were cruel and he was standing on the frailer point of his leg on purpose.

Rough fingers grabbed his hair, while the weigh on his leg disappeared, replaced by a knee against his back.

“I've seen you, ya know? Signing autographs, saving people and smiling at the cameras and saying that everything's gonna be fine...” The Comedian crashed his face against the floor, and Steve tasted his own blood, while pain flared on his broken nose. “But it won't be fine, nothing will be fucking fine. Everything's going to hell, now, in a few months, a few years at most.”

The hand on his hair forced him to lift his head abruptly, making him cough when the chain around his neck tightened painfully. There was blood flowing from his face down to his chin, and blood was all Steve could taste.

“And tell me, who will you be smiling at when the nukes start flying?” the Comedian mused, talking almost softly next to his ear.

Steve arched without any warnings, managing to make him lose his balance, even if the grip on his hair became even more painful.

“You...” he managed to say in a strangled voice. He wheezed, tasting blood again through his broken nose. “You're speaking like we are already at war. But we can still avoid it.”

The Comedian let him go immediately, with a sound that could mean both boredom or contempt.

“Avoid it?”

He took out a lighter from his pocket and lighted up his cigar. The smoke was pungent and nauseating, mixed as it was with the blood Steve was still tasting inside his mouth.

“Yes, avoid it, even if I don't expect that a warmonger like you could understand that.” he managed to say. 

He had another coughing fit while he got up on his knees, his face still forced to remain a couple of inches from the floor; he could only lift his head for so much before the chain threatened to strangle him.

“No, it's you that don't understand shit.”

The Comedian blew smoke in his face, causing him to cough again.

He tried to regain his breath, but his throat hurt, his face and groin hurt, and even he could feel his broken nose slowly mending itself, there was still blood in his mouth. Then, the Comedian was upon him, with the suffocating smell of his cigar and his grin and his cruel hands that were only a prelude to the suffering that would follow.

“There was another one like you. Another blonde brat with blue eyes and high ideals. But he had enough brain to become dangerous and now he's rich and I bet his hands are as clean as his ass is still virgin.” With a violent jerk, Steve found himself naked below the waist, with his pants and underwear lowered on his ankles, and the words of protest got stuck in his throat. “You, on the other hand, are innocent in both sides, right?”

He couldn't breathe. Between the grip on his neck and the sensation of being so utterly exposed and vulnerable, so incapable of defending himself and rebel against what the Comedian had in store for him, Steve felt like his lungs were frozen in fear.

He wasn't really afraid of torture: he knew pain, it was a perception he was familiar with, it was bearable, because that was what he had prepared to endure way before he had become Captain America, when he was still a thin, frail kid from Brooklyn. This, however... this was something very different.

The same cold panic that had paralyzed him only a few seconds before, now made him react, so he began struggling, grabbing the chain and pulling until he almost choked himself, in the vain hope that it gave in.

“Don't touch me!”

The Comedian sized him by the hair again and gave a couple of hard jerks, not caring of the choking sounds that Steve was making when the chain around his neck tightened even more.

“You're letting the government use you like its whore and now you mind if I make you my whore as well?”

Through the panic and the lack of air that was clouding his mind, Steve felt a cold blade against his skin while his clothes were torn into pieces. Then, the hand on his hair shoved his head down, hard, breaking his nose again, a knee materialized between his legs, taking advantage of his pain and lack of air to force them apart, and something hard and warm and  _wrong_ began pressing against his hole.

“Let's see if I can take some of your fucking idealism away,” the Comedian laughed.

He  _laughed_ , and he thrusts into him, and pain swallowed him whole.

For only one moment of rationality, Steve was grateful for the chain around his neck, because the scream that he couldn't suppress was muffled in a less humiliating sound. He tried to struggle again, but at every movement the grip on his neck tightened, choking him some more, and his tormentor's hands on his hips were like claws and the pain was unbearable.

The Comedian was still laughing.

“You think yourself a hero? With your shield, your tight gay costume, the nice guy behavior?” He thrust into him again, _and the pain was unbearable_ , a lot more intense, more real, more intimate than everything Steve had ever felt. “The world's gonna burn anyway, you can't save it. You're just too stupid to realize that.”

“Stop,” he managed to say, his voice broken because of the agony and the lack of air. And he didn't know if he was talking about the violence or the Comedian's words, but they were both hurting him, more painful than the wounds of war and the punches he had received before Erskine's serum.

The only answer he received was the smoke that invaded his nostrils, stealing what little air he was struggling to breathe.

The Comedian's thrusts became deeper and more violent, and his agony worsened so much he could only close his eyes and bite the inside of his cheek to suppress his pained moans, while managing broken breaths, fighting against the chain.

Even so, he hadn't stopped waiting for his enemy to make a mistake, or for the chain to reveal a weak link, waiting for something that would give him his freedom back. He would think later about the pain, the humiliation, the Comedian's words and touches that had been engraved on his skin.

Now he only had to think about fighting back.

He repeated it inside his mind like a mantra, even when the Comedian growled in what was his own moan of pleasure and pressed his cigar on Steve's shoulder, rotating it to give him a new kind of pain that worsened the agony he was already feeling from the rape.

“You served America, you served the politicians and the government like a faithful dog. And what have they done to thank you? They've called _me_.”

Steve bit his cheek harder and let only a choked sound escape. He didn't want to listen to him.

By now, he almost couldn't breathe, his throat hurt, the chain was so tight it seemed about to tear his skin. And there was blood in his mouth and between his legs, and it was so real that he wanted to throw up.

The cigar was taken away and then thrown to the floor next to his face, leaving an unbearable smell of burned flesh in the air.

_His own flesh._

“And now tell me again that this world can still be saved.”

Steve realized only barely the moment the Comedian pulled back, letting him collapse onto the floor. He tried to regain his breath, waiting for the pain to fade, so that he could make another attempt at freeing himself, so that he would get up and fight again, like he had to do, like he had always done. But he didn't believe it.

Even if he managed to free himself from the chain, even if he attacked the Comedian, even if he _killed_ him, nothing of what that man had done to him would disappear.

His wounds were slowing healing, they wouldn't even scar, but the Comedian's words and violence would remain under his skin, to torment him forever.

Like he was faraway, he barely felt the Comedian loosening the chain, giving him enough room to breathe, maybe even to free himself –  _he didn't try to, not now, not when he was still trying to put together what had broken inside him._

Then, the man crouched down next to him. His breath smelled of smoke and Steve had the urge to puke.

“See you next time, _Captain,_ ” the Comedian said, before standing up with a laughter.

And his laughter echoed for a long time in Steve's ears, even after the man had disappeared from his sight.


End file.
